


What the Storm Brought

by Nagaina



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, CW: Rough But Consensual Sex, Cultist Zenyatta, Demon Wang All Up In Here, Lovecraftian, M/M, Monsterfucking, Oni Genji, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 13:56:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21303203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaina/pseuds/Nagaina
Summary: The unnatural heat of the summer brought savage storms. The dry cool of the autumn brought unlooked for horror. And one monk of the Shambali Order chooses to risk much to stop it.
Relationships: Genji Shimada/Tekhartha Zenyatta
Comments: 6
Kudos: 93
Collections: OW Halloween Gift Exchange 2019





	What the Storm Brought

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bunny for the Overwatch 2K19 Halloween Gift Exchange.

Zenyatta heard the commotion long before he saw it: a babble of agitated voices echoing unintelligibly down the monastery’s long, narrow halls; a softer, deeper more resonant voice speaking in tones of comforting authority; beneath them all, someone emitting an endless rising-falling keen of pure anguish. It was the last that led him to turn in that direction and stretch his legs -- not running, for that would attract too much attention, disrupt the peace of novices and elder siblings alike, set the laboriously constructed and maintained harmony within the monastery’s walls out of order, even if ever so slightly -- but walking briskly as driven before a cold autumn wind. A wry smile curled the corners of his mouth back a fraction, for he even had the ice curling down his spine to match.

The group clustered in the high-walled central courtyard was a substantial one: a half-dozen gray haired, gray bearded village elders, twice again as many of the hale and healthy adults, and a genuine gaggle of adolescents and younger children kept apart and watched over by their siblings. The elders were gathered in a loose crescent around the tall, straight-backed figure of the Eldest Brother, at present kneeling in his pristine white robes on the courtyard’s only dubiously swept cobbles, his hand resting comfortingly on the shoulder of the mourner, an elderly woman who clawed at her face and tore at her clothing between wails.

Between them lay a corpse.

Zenyatta stepped behind one of the columns that supported the monastery’s soaring entry veranda and sped away as expeditiously as he had approached, returned to his own cell, only recently abandoned. There, he knelt and opened the small wooden chest he kept tucked beneath his sleeping pallet, extracted from it the sweetest and most serene of his Masks, settled it in place and folded into the first and shallowest of the meditative forms, listening intently until he heard the Eldest Brother’s light-footed tread passing through the outer halls on the way to the sanctuary. 

Mondatta knelt, his head bowed in contemplation and his hands held in a warding mudra for the banishment of evil, and Zenyatta paused on the threshold, arrested, and knelt, bowing his sweet and serene mask to the floor.

Within, Mondatta shifted in his stance, his breathing deepening, and when he spoke his voice was planed empty of expression. “Speak your wisdom to me, brother.”

Zenyatta rose from his prostration, rested his hands on his thighs, palms and fingers open. “Something must be done, Eldest. Let me be the one to do it.”

Mondatta sighed. “You...are not wrong. In truth, I should have acted before now but I had hoped…” His voice trailed off into pained silence that Zenyatta chose not to break. “I would not, I would never, ask this of you.”

“I know.” Zenyatta replied, gently. “You have protected me well, my brother. Now that task is mine.”

Mondatta’s shoulders relaxed slightly, not quite a slump, as though a vast weight had been lifted from them. “I will send the siblings at once to bring the people inside the monastery walls.”

“And I shall make my preparations.” Zenyatta bowed his face to the floor again. “Be at peace, my brother. It will all be over soon.”

***

It had begun at the end of the summer, an unusually hot, stormy summer, as the first cool, dry air of autumn had flowed over the mountains and through the long, broad valley at the foot of the monastery’s vast granite promontory. August’s moon had waxed bloody and hung red in the sky until its light was swallowed entire by the world’s shadow.

The next morning, a young shepherd from the village built in the monastery’s shadow climbed into the hills and found the first of the victims: her brother, identifiable as such only by the scraps of clothing still clinging to his brutalized remains. She fled back down the trail, shrieking in horror, to summon their clan’s elders. Their uneasy judgment, and that of the other elders, was an animal attack: some beast of the mountains, driven forth by hunger, who had found the boy before the flocks under his care and sated itself on his flesh instead. 

That explanation became less compelling when, a lunar cycle later, a second young man, abroad in the night, joined the first in scarlet ruin. Unlike the first, this one was within the precincts of the village itself, returning home from an unsanctioned assignation with his lover, and his screams had roused the households closest to the scene. The intrepid souls who came to investigate arrived in time to find him choking out his last through a throat shredded to the bone, much of what had once been inside him spread around him across the footpath. Though some particularly obdurate individuals insisted that the lean, swift creature some of them had glimpsed bounding over the rooftops, whose eyes had returned the beams of their lights in glints of red, was a beast and nothing more, a frisson of unease passed through the town, ebbing slowly as the nights following brought no new terrors.

Fear exploded to life as flaring embers fanned back to flame after the next lunation, when none of the herdsmen and shepherds tasked with standing watch over the village’s flocks in their autumn pasturage could be found by their relief. Eight hardy young men and women, chosen for their watchful and steady and cautious dispositions, the number doubled by order of the elders, who were growing both suspicious and wise under siege. Pieces were found, eventually -- a limb here, a head with its eyes and tongue eaten away there, occasional well-gnawed lengths of bone and shreds of skin stripped of their flesh and fat.

By then, news had reached the monastery of the beast’s depredations -- a sibling had presided over the funerary rites for the slain, after all, and carried back their own observations along with formal missives explaining the situation and offering warnings to the monastery’s residents. Now a delegate was sent to the monastery to warn the brothers and sisters cloistered there of what had transpired, to beg the aid of more hands to lay the dead to rest with proper ritual and make certain their frightened, angry ghosts would not add more grief to the travails of the still-living, to make certain they protected their own against the beast’s rampage. Mondatta, speaking for the community as the Eldest Brother, accepted this advice gravely, promised whatever aid the village elders required, and took public counsel of the monastery’s residents with regard to security precautions they thought necessary.

In private, he spoke with Zenyatta.

“What is it, brother? Do you know?” Mondatta had asked him as they sat together a pot of tea and the chaturanga board spread between them.

Zenyatta sipped his tea and gazed out from their vantage point over the high, enclosing walls of the monastery, the tightly clustered lights of the village below, the hills beyond washed in the blue autumn twilight, and turned his face into the wind. It hung there, still, faint and taunting, the scent of the thing he had first tasted in the breath of the savage storms that battered the mountains that summer, as lightning raked the peaks and thunder rolled among them, as the very bones of the world itself had trembled before their fury. No natural storms he had felt from the first, roaring into their sheltered little world from another, far less gentle place, a place whose taint had carried in its rain and in its wind and in the thing that had ridden with them. “Not precisely, no. But I know from whence it came, and no good can come of it.”

“Do not speak it, brother.” Mondatta’s hand lifted away from the board, sketched a Sign in the air between them, where it hung briefly visible, and Zenyatta nodded. “Are you  _ certain? _ ”

“As certain as I can be without seeing it.” Zenyatta replied, with a serenity he did not entirely feel, the taste of the thing still filling his head, lying on his tongue sick-sweet and foul.

“I do not wish you to see it. That is a risk you should not be forced to take, and I will not ask it of you.” Mondatta sipped his own tea, his gaze settling on the last bright sliver of the waning moon as it slid toward the westernmost ridge of the mountains.

“You value me too highly, Eldest.” Zenyatta said, gently, and made his own move. “If not I, then who? The moon will be dark in two nights.”

***

The last of the stragglers passed through the monastery’s gates as the sun touched the western horizon -- Zenyatta, standing in the highest part of the village, the watchtower atop the assembly hall, watched them close, the echoes rolling down the valley with the finality of a tomb closing upon its occupant. All else was silence, for not even the oldest and stubbornest graybeard or grandmother was permitted to remain behind, not the fussiest child or bravest hunter, and he was entirely and wholly alone, as he had demanded.

Soon the moon would rise on him alone, as well, and so he climbed back down into the hall itself, to complete his preparations.

The furniture had already been cleared away and the floor swept clean, laid with soft, thick-woven carpets and cushions covered in jeweled silks, gathered around a black metal hook driven into the planks of the floor, all things taken from the small wooden chest he had carried with him from the monastery. He extracted from it now several more things: four thuribles, carved from single rubies the size of his closed fist, hung with chains of adamant; an ivory tube, sealed in wax at each end, its surface carved in phantasmagoria, erotic and hideous at once; a crystal vial of impossible clarity, made solid only by the crimson liquid it held; a pair of black metal shackles and the length of black metal chain to go with them.

His robes pooled around his feet as he let them fall, folding away all but for the stole Mondatta had wrapped around his neck before his departure. That he folded and tucked beneath one of the cushions.

The crystal vial sighed as he opened it for the first time in an age, exhaling a breath of desire, lush and ripe and ready for the harvest. He touched a drop of its liqueur behind each ear, to the hollow of his throat, the bend of his limbs, his genitals, and replaced it in the chest. He opened the thuribles and to each added a homely square of charcoal. He cracked the seal of the ivory tube and extracted from it four pastilles of incense that, even before the fire, filled the air with the scent of promise: of the surcease of need, the satisfaction of hunger, the sweetness of human blood and the savor of human flesh, and for a moment his own mouth watered, his own throat ached, until he shut them away inside their vessels and hung those vessels from the hall’s simple, soot-stained rafters. The ivory tube he put away, and closed the lid of his chest, murmuring the Words that sealed its lock against even the cleverest questing fingers, and hid it in a dark corner, well out of sight. As the last of the natural light faded, he lit the candle lamps bolted to the walls, next to the entrance, made certain that the louvered wooden doors were folded back and all that lay between him and the dark and the creature that lurked in it was a curtain of heavy felted silk.

Around his wrists he replaced his fetters, for the first time since the Eldest Brother struck them away, and locked them, and his flesh burned beneath them as he slid the chain through the floor-hook and set those bindings, as well. The last thing he set in place as he folded himself down among the cushions: the Mask he had chosen, a Mask of unblemished, wanton virtue, innocent and without shame or fear. He lay down then, naked and bound among the cushions as a sacrifice, murmured the Word that brought the incense to flame, and bided as its seduction of blood and death breathed out into the moonless night on serpentine coils of smoke.

He did not have long to wait.

Something landed on the high-peaked roof -- Zenyatta heard it, its claws scrabbling for purchase on the ceramic tiles, felt its presence pressing down on him, feverishly hot, perfuming the air with the copper-salt taste of blood. It was still for a long moment, predator wary, and when it finally moved it was with predatory swiftness, lightness, long claw-clicking strides, landing soundlessly when it lept. The curtain rippled, parted, and the creature stepped inside.

The creature’s skin was pallid, an unnatural slaty gray-white, stippled in a pattern of crimson markings along its ribs, across the flat muscular plain of his chest and belly, forearms and thighs. The bony protrusions that jutted from forehead and jaw were likewise crimson, eyes burning like coals in the depths of their sockets, the lips that strained around the mouthful of tusks and unnaturally sharp teeth. Long black claws tipped each finger and each toe on the long, high-arched feet, clicking on the wooden planks of the meeting hall floor as it paced toward him, a low rumbling purr rising in the thing’s throat. The hair was a wild black mane, tangled and windswept, as was the thatch that lay at the juncture of the long, muscular thighs, and yet it did very little to disguise the fact of the creature’s phallus, long and thick even only semi-erect, its head drawn to a hooked point, its length ridged in bony protrusions.

Zenyatta made no pretense of sleep, or any other display of ignorance, sitting up amid the cushions, hands braced to display the shackles and the chain drawn between them, meeting the creature’s gaze -- hazed with the summons of the incense, glazed with lust. Those bloody shining eyes widened as the creature saw those bindings and its tongues, several, bifurcated, unnaturally flexible, darted out to lick its lips.

“Ahhhhh,” It rumbled, voice a harsh and echoing rasp, and in it he heard another’s, softer, sobbing, begging, and Zenyatta knew at once what he looked upon. “At last, a proper offering. Have you a name, oh delicious morsel?”

“None worthy of you, oh mighty on’yomi.” Zenyatta lowered his gaze modestly, allowed the faintest blush to color his cheeks, shifted a thigh to hide himself ever so slightly. “I am but a --”

The creature growled and was upon him in an instant, slamming him to the cushions with the force of the blow it struck him, pinning him with its greater weight, forcing its leg between his thighs. He put up only token resistance, forcing himself to relax, chest heaving with panicked breaths, allowing tears to rise in his eyes and slide down his temples, the blood from his split lip to slide down his cheek.

“ _ I _ will decide what it is worthy of me, morsel.” The creature growled against his ear, its charnel breath strong enough to overcome even the thick perfume of the incense, the tip of one of its tongues a line of fire as it licked away his tears, his blood. “Ahhhhh,  _ there _ it is. I had wondered when the sheep would run bleating to their shepherds. You are a monk.”

“A novice of the order.” Zenyatta whispered, cringing away from the creature’s touch, forcing himself to stop with a genuine, whole-body shudder as its hand caressed the shaved curve of his skull, as claw-tips skated down his breast to pluck idly at his nipples. “I offered myself for this, oh mighty on’yomi, to you, to beg your mercy for the people of this place.”

“A  _ willing _ sacrifice.” The creature’s voice dropped to a rumbling purr, the tips of its claws digging into his chin as it tilted his face into the light, and he allowed more tears to fall for its delectation. “And such a beautiful morsel you are. Are you pure, as well, pretty morsel? Untouched? Or have your brothers and sisters slaked their shame-filled lusts on your exquisite flesh?”

The creature’s hand slid between his thighs, found what it sought, and fondled it roughly, its palm and fingers striped with swordsman’s callus, the prick of its claws a counterpoint to the sudden, jagged rush of pleasure. He allowed a low, desperate whimper to drip up his throat and past his abused lips, the flush on his cheeks to deepen.

“Innocent, then.” The creature’s voice deepened, lowered, thickened with lust and in it he heard the echo of a desperate human plea. “Ah, lovely morsel. I am going to  _ ravish _ you. I am going to fuck you until you beg me to stop and then fuck you more. I am going to season your flesh and blood with your pleasure and your agony.” 

The pace of its hand quickened and Zenyatta allowed his back to arch, more choked, involuntary noises to escape him, more tears to fall. At least two of the creature’s tongues invaded his mouth, entangling his own, grinding more blood from his lips, as it brought him to a swift, shattering peak, his seed flowing in hot pulses over his belly, his chest, the creature’s fingers.

It sat back to admire its handiwork, eyes smoldering hotly as it licked its hand clean and Zenyatta shivered against the cushions, gasping for breath, flushed and trembling. The grip it took on his knees as it forced his thighs further apart raised bruises and drew blood at once, and it made no pretense of gentleness or even care as it took him, its rampant length splitting him open in a single hard thrust. Zenyatta’s cry was not entirely affectation, the creature’s phallus, hooked and spined and nearly thick as a large man’s wrist, found places inside him that had not been touched in years, decades, centuries, not since the hour he had stumbled free of his durance and fled, still in chains, across the cold and forbidden plateau of Leng to seek either freedom or death. Nor could he entirely prevent the desperate mewls of pleasure that escaped him as it rutted, the force of its thrusts, the grip on his hips, the low growling cries and the filthy suggestions pouring out of its mouth all equally savage. Its climax, when it came, was searing hot and sticky-wet, spilling inside him in scorching pulses that pushed him over the edge again and momentarily sent his mind spinning into darkness.

When he regained his senses, the creature was stretched languorously against him, lapping their mingled leavings from his thighs and belly and manhood, one of its tongues wrapped around him and coaxing him slowly back to tumescence, abandoning the task reluctantly when it realized he was awake. “Such a  _ delicious _ morsel. I shall  _ enjoy _ rending your flesh and cracking your marrow-bones and suckling the last of the blood from your heart as much as I enjoy your life-seed.  _ So sweet. _ ”

“ _ Please, _ ” Zenyatta moaned, and let his legs part, wanton, and his hands drift to his chest, as far as the chains would allow. “Please... _ more. _ ”

“Oh, yes, lovely morsel. You shall definitely have more.” Its gaze flicked up, found where the chains ran through their binding, ember-bright eyes narrowing with contempt. “No coward, you. A  _ whore _ , perhaps, but not a  _ coward. _ What need of these chains?” 

The tip of its claw touched them and Zenyatta spoke the Word, the Word in the tongue of lost and fallen Sarkomand, and the fetters flowed from his wrists to encircle those of the creature. It tried to rear back, to pull away, but Zenyatta’s hands, freed, caught it by the shoulders, fingers digging into the creature’s pallid flesh, and he spoke again. The sour stink of searing demon-flesh rose as the shackles, and the chains between them, lit from within, the hidden sigils carved across their surface, on each link, shining balefully as he twisted his shoulders, slung a leg wide, pivoted his hips. The chains continued that motion, slamming the creature to the floor, chains stitching themselves across its body, binding its arms tight against its sides, pinning its legs to the floor. For long minutes the creature thrashed and raged, howling abuse in half a hundred tongues of the underworld while, beneath its foul voice, another sobbed in relief and desperation alike, until finally it stilled, exhausted

Zenyatta knelt next to it, wincing as the motion pulled bruised muscles, set blood running from abused flesh, retrieving the stole Mondatta had given him from beneath its cushion and stretching it between his hands. Moving swiftly, he looped it around his captive’s neck and tied it in a binding knot. “Still your vile tongues. You will speak no word to me that is not truth, pure and unsullied.”

The creature’s vituperations died behind its many sharp teeth and the heat that scorched him now in its gaze was perfect hate. Clearly, not one used to being held against its will.

“I know  _ what _ you are, on’yomi, spirit of hunger and hate and violation,” Zenyatta met that gaze without fear, the corners of his mouth curling back in an expression that could not, truly, be called a smile. “But I would know more. Your name, demon. Give it to me.”

The creature snarled, wordless. Beneath it, he heard that other voice crying out, but could not discern the  _ words. _

“You asked me for mine, no so long ago.” Zenyatta murmured, and laid his hand on the creature’s chest. “You are still unworthy of it, but I would consider a  _ trade _ , if only for the sake of the innocent whose flesh you wear.  _ Speak _ .”

The creature’s throat worked, its mouth, and it spat a gout of reeking black blood in his face.

Zenyatta sighed, and wiped the blood from his eyes, and rose, sliding astride the creature’s hips, one hand still on its chest. “You have denied me twice, demon. In the name of mercy, I give you this last chance.  _ Speak your name. _ ”

Silence, but for the creature’s heavy, ragged breathing. 

Zenyatta gazed down on it for a moment with something like genuine pity stirring in the depths of his heart. Then he reached up and broke the seal on his Mask. The stark terror washing across the creature’s face as he peeled it away, exposed what lay beneath, sent a wave of pleasure through him almost more intense than orgasm, laughter bubbling up his throat. Blood welled across the creature’s pallid skin as his own talons found purchase, as he drew himself to the creature’s face, its wildly rolling eyes, the tips of his feelers skittering across its lips, sliding like questing fingers through its hair, pulling their mouths together, forcing the creature’s open. Beneath him, it began to thrash again, wildly, attempting to buck him off, attempting to break the chains, to no avail. He tightened the grip of his legs, dug his talons in deeper, and the chains cinched themselves a notch closer. 

He knew his own eyes were pitiless, baleful, green as the stars that glittered in the sky over lost and fallen Sarkomand as he captured the creature’s gaze, as his tendrils surged down its throat and he began to  _ feed. _

It resisted, of course -- they always did, all such creatures, and just as all the ones before it, it failed. Its strength waned, undone by his hunger, by his desire, endless, aching, unappeasable, as he uprooted it from the flesh of its host, peeled away all its hooks and wiles and bindings and swallowed them down, one by one, tore the fabric of its being into delectable strips and devoured them, piece by piece. Roused beyond sanity, he impaled himself on the creature again and rode it, wildly, his own tentacles binding them together, invading its stolen body even as he consumed it, its soul-deep agonized shrieks blending with his moans in an unholy symphony, a banquet of unhallowed delights.

Slowly, the creature’s cries dwindled. Slowly, its stolen flesh changed: horns and spikes and mouthful of rending, slashing tusks becoming smooth, unblemished skin, teeth still sharp but no longer those of a predatory beast. Talons retreated into the tips of human fingers, eyes began to lose their bloody crimson radiance. The seed that spilled inside him, even as he filled the body shuddering and writhing beneath him with his own unhuman fluids, was the life-seed of a human creature. It was a human man -- a human  _ boy _ nearly, no older than some of the oldest shepherds in the village -- who looked up at him as he lifted his feelers, his feeders, his tentacles away from that lovely mouth, who took a shuddering breath and curled into his arms and wept without shame.

“Thank you,” He croaked, once he had words again to speak. “Thank you. I --”

“Ssshhhh,” Zenyatta murmured, and reached again for his Mask. “Be at peace, young one. What is your name?”

“Genji. Shimada Genji.” A ragged breath, almost a sob. “What have I done?”

“Not you. The beast that used your flesh. You are not at fault for that.” Zenyatta replied, gently, and set his Mask back in place. “Rest. You are safe now. No harm will come to you in the night and tomorrow? Tomorrow we will go to my home, to my brothers and sisters, and you will be safer still. That I promise you. Be at peace.” 


End file.
